


A Guide to Decorating with Antlers

by keire_ke



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keire_ke/pseuds/keire_ke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://lostwiginity.tumblr.com/post/23695433108">Based on this photoset.</a> Erik enjoys some dastardly earned rest and a mug of ale, when an impetuous girl demands he and his merry band of ruffians abandon their rest to rescue her brother. Erik's vote of protest is disregarded entirely, even when the girl's claims about the nature of the danger become more and more outlandish, so there's nothing to do but saddle up the horses and set forth into the snowy night, to fight beasts and conquer enchanted castles, hopefully to win the heart of the distressed young Master Xavier, whose life is in mortal peril.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. look, there he goes

**Author's Note:**

> The story deviates a little from the theme set by [the lovely photoset](http://lostwiginity.tumblr.com/post/23695433108). Kernezelda came to my aid with her betaing skills (thank you!). Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No, but ‘your business’ desperately needs a moment at her business." Emma the Countess, Emma the bastard daughter of a king, Emma the White Lady of Pont-l'Évêque, picked up a mug of beer, downed half of it, slammed it on the bar top and belched loudly enough to turn the heads of half the patrons.

Erik hated this dung hole, conveniently masquerading as a town. For one thing, the townspeople of Boursin assumed that a man clad in black and wearing an unfriendly grimace was a man in mourning and thus required some form of consolation, be it a mug of ale on the house (this he reluctantly welcomed), or the advances of a local whore, which he refused with alacrity. Not, it had to be said, out of any particular animosity towards the woman (she was surprisingly clean, healthy and well-received, for someone who must have tumbled half the puritan town), but because there was the chance that _he_ would happen to look into the pub.

That was not a risk worth taking.

"For the love of whatever god you believe in, Erik," Emma hissed into his ear when he slapped the whore’s hand away from his thigh (kindly – upsetting whores in a bar could win a man a jagged glass to the face) and sent her along to the red-headed carpenter, with whom she dallied on a basis so regular and inevitable, Erik sometimes wondered why they even bothered with the overt pecuniary exchanges.

"What now?" he asked Emma, when she refused to continue.

"Would it kill you to tumble the poor girl? She’s got to eat."

"She does alright."

"What’s your point?"

"My point is she doesn’t need my business."

"No, but ‘your business’ desperately needs a moment at her business." Emma the Countess, Emma the bastard daughter of a king, Emma the White Lady of Pont-l'Évêque, picked up a mug of beer, downed half of it, slammed it on the bar top and belched loudly enough to turn the heads of half the patrons.

"Just when I think I can’t see how I could possibly hate you any more," Erik said, raising her hand to his mouth for a kiss, "you become so revolting it would take a saint to withstand your company. Thank you, Emma, lest I forget what a monster you are."

"My pleasure, darling." She stared at him while she nursed the remaining ale. "I trust you aren’t entertaining the fantasy that I don’t know what this is about?"

"How should I dare," Erik muttered, feeling for his rapier. Following the unpleasantness in an inn on the outskirts of Époisses he made sure to periodically check that it was still affixed to his waist whenever he was drinking. God knew they didn’t need a repeat of that incident.

As though to spare him the indignity of arguing, not for the first time, the ridiculous nature of his abstinence in the town of Boursin, the winter wind howled in the swiftly opened door and then died, having blown the rest of Erik’s companions inside. They began shaking the snow off their coats, or so they should be doing, but instead Azazel began pushing aside people in his haste to reach Erik and Emma at the bar, dragging behind a girl, thoroughly wrapped in a coat made for someone much broader in the shoulders.

"I don’t recall putting out a recruiting call," Erik said lazily, fixing her with the most unfriendly stare imaginable.

"She was seeking you. I, being a gentleman, hastened to offer my services," Azazel said, affecting the most dismissive shrug of shoulders known to mankind.

"She can speak, thank you. And thank you for your help. It is most appreciated." The girl straightened, took off her winter coat and shook the excess snow onto the floor, sharing with the entire inn the view of her scandalous wardrobe. "I come to you seeking help."

Erik laughed. "Surely you have me confused with someone else."

She offered a quick, humourless laugh. "No, not really. Not now that I see you before my eyes, anyway. My brother is being held against his will by a terrible beast in a castle. I need your help to save him."

"Darling, now I know you have me confused. You want a knight, not a bandit, and anyway, rescuing a brother, really? What kind of a man would drop all he was doing to save a brother, when there is a pretty lady before him?" Erik raised his mug and took a healthy gulp, realising too late that the girl was watching him with narrowed, mean and gleeful gaze.

"Oh, did I not mention my brother is called Charles Xavier?" she said gaily, then grinned brighter when Erik choked and spit the mouthful back into the mug. He should have known better, truly, after all, how could a man trust a girl of marrying age who shamelessly wore trousers in a public place?

"What, pray tell, has sent you to seek my assistance?" he managed, in between Emma’s helpful pounding of his back, though how was he heard when Janos, Angel and Azazel began sniggering in a thoroughly unsubtle manner, he didn’t know. "Your brother is not an acquaintance of mine."

The girl grinned at him, bright as a daisy and twice as malicious. "Well, since you must know, I just asked myself, who has been unable to ride into town without setting up camp in front of whatever it was my brother was doing at the moment, and thus would likely take offence to never seeing him again. You were far from the first choice, naturally, but a girl must consider other criteria as well." She propped her hands on her hips and smiled, as though the battle had already been won. She looked at the entirety of Erik’s team, who had erected a wall between them and the rest of the pub, gaining their unanimous support, going by their faces. "Unless I was wrong and you aren’t at all interested in helping out a desperate damsel, in which case there is the woodsman, who would have been my first choice, except I couldn’t find him."

Emma, damn her to the seven hells, inclined her head. "Very well, darling, we’ll retire to a more private setting. You may regale us with your tale, but my interest is sufficiently piqued. Congratulations."

"Hold on," Erik began, despite the painful hammering of his heart. "What makes you think we are getting involved?"

There is a time in the life of every leader when he must charge forth and pray that his subordinates follow him, even should the charge be to their own deaths. The true leader anticipates such charges and measures them carefully, so as not to spend his followers carelessly. Erik fancied himself a talented man, where leadership was involved, though his operation was on a small scale. He never asked of his people more than they could give, although on occasion he would ask for more than they wanted to give. He had yet to be wrong. This applied to a grand scale, obviously, because he had gotten them stuck in the mud once or twice.

This was one of the other times, the kind that the leader dreads. Inevitably, there will be a time when a leader raises his voice to utter a command, or question, and finds that his people have ignored him completely and have already left.

This was the time Erik's leadership now faced: the girl left, guided by Azazel, while Angel and Janos followed, leaving him and Emma to settle the bill.

"Let me answer thusly," Emma said, having acknowledged his belated realisation with a hearty gulp of beer. "Barkeep – if this was a fine-weathered day, where would you look for this gentleman?"

The barkeep, an elderly creature who hadn’t set foot outside the pub within the past century or so, squinted at Erik and said, "Well, if the needs be, sunshine permitting, his lordship could normally be found by the smithy, yes, on account of today’s being Tuesday, and young Master Xavier spends his Tuesday afternoons at the smithy, kind madam."

Emma slid three gleaming coins in the barkeeps direction. "For proving my point. Come on, Erik, let us battle the beast and rescue your pretty boy. Fates permitting, we can solve one of your issues by appealing to his sense of gratitude."

"I have no idea what you mean," Erik said haughtily, banishing the fantasy of rescuing the lovely Master Xavier from the clutches of a beast and being rewarded for the deed by the swooning youth. "Wait, did she say beast in a castle?"

"We will worry about the details later." Emma drew her white hood over her hair and stepped out into the winter storm. "She is young and excitable – I’m sure the boy is merely stuck in a deserted ruin with a wild ferret. The saving is what matters, the danger can and will be arranged."

Emma will have turned out to be very, very wrong. This didn’t happen often. Erik's hopeful predictions, on the other hand, will have proven themselves correct to an astonishing degree, if one generously omitted the fantasy of swooning and the somewhat convoluted matter of who had been saving whom.


	2. isn't he dreamy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'd visited the baker and the inn, then the chocolatier because Angel wouldn’t get up on most mornings until tempted into movement by a piece of chocolate, following which he'd gone to purchase fresh fruit and had been stricken dumb by the box of oranges.

The very first time Erik had seen the pretty boy, as Emma had dubbed the apparition, had been on his third excursion into Boursin. They'd been lying low for the moment, sequestered in an ancient hunting cabin a short ride from the outskirts of town, where there'd been a supply of fresh water and a decent grove for hunting rabbits. It had been a plan that would have satisfied everyone, had Emma not been a lady, who would starve to death in front of her plate, had the napkin been arranged crookedly. Hence the trip into town: berries and even apples could be discovered in the forest, Azazel’s hunting trips had yielded a handsome young buck, but they were running low on wine, bread and delicacies, so Erik, being the least recognisable face presently, had taken to his horse and ridden into town.

He'd visited the baker and the inn, then the chocolatier because Angel wouldn’t get up on most mornings until tempted into movement by a piece of chocolate (the fact that there was typically only one piece to be had, as Erik tended towards midnight snacks notwithstanding), following which he'd gone to purchase fresh fruit and had been stricken dumb by the box of oranges. He'd been acutely aware of the uneven, yet smooth, fruit skin against his palm, of the sun shining overhead and the usual bustle of a marketplace, and the smell of cloves, wafting from a nearby stall, but over that there had been another type of awareness, the kind that filtered out all sense and reason, leaving behind only a stark reality with glistening edges.

A boy had stood next to the vendor of spice, smiling up at the stately matron as she weighed a handful of some herbs and wrapped them in a piece of cloth. There was a book of tales underneath his arm, one that detailed the exploits of a particularly malicious fairy in the neighbouring counties. Erik'd managed to register all of that, by some miracle, until his gaze had shifted and he'd seen the boy properly. Then he might have let out a choked gasp, dropped the orange he was holding, and departed in a dignified fashion, certainly not running whilst keeping himself hidden among the stalls.

He'd gone halfway to their hideout before he'd realised what had just happened. The bout of self-awareness had served him poorly, alas, as it'd been overshadowed by the memory of the boy smiling. There'd been a touch of ridiculousness in the whole endeavour, to be quite honest, because the boy was hardly special, Erik'd groused to himself. There were hundreds of others, just like him, waiting in every tiny village all over the kingdom. Why, just the previous month he’d seen a similar youth in Livarot, even if he hadn’t smiled quite so brightly, or with the entirety of his compact body.

That was rather the thing with Erik. He appreciated people who did everything wholeheartedly, be it smiling, laughing, or slaughtering. He’d rescued Emma and formed an alliance with her (even in his wildest fantasies he would never risk thinking he’d recruited Emma) because she had the bearing of a queen; her delight relaxed her palms and loosened her shoulders, and she’d lean into a chair and radiate comfort, like a cat with a lock-pick faced with a cage full of canaries. Angel used to be a small-town whore who walked into the business with both eyes open, conquered it, and with it the town: men and women both cleaved to her, begging for a minute of her time. Azazel – well, the less said about Azazel (and Janos, Azazel's silent companion) the better, as Erik had yet to get the taste out of his mouth, but it'd been worth it in the end.

And then there was the boy. He must have been young, because his face had looked fresh and unassuming, and the joy he'd affected had been uncomplicated and blooming, for a lack of a better word. Erik had thought on that smile with longing, though the warm recollection had been spoiled by the host of cathedral bells, ringing out a clear warning. Too late, however, were the chimes; by the time Erik made it to the cabin his head had been filled with little else.

Over the following weeks (later months, eventually a full year), Erik would fabricate excuses to visit Boursin; it'd helped that the cuisine was unique and Emma favoured lace that a local woman made to her exacting standards. The sole trouble had been that he could tell his companions only so much before they began suspecting something was afoot. Erik, curse his tastes, didn’t associate with halfwits.

"Were you watching that pretty boy again?" Azazel had asked one afternoon, shortly after Charles (his name, Erik had soon discovered, was Charles) had almost noticed and looked his way from where he'd been helping some hateful hulk of a man hammer something into standing upright. Erik had hoped the construction would fall on the man’s head, liberating the world from such menace.

It hadn't taken long for Erik, through diligent but seemingly careless inquiries, to learn that Charles Xavier had been born to a Lord Xavier less than a quarter of a century ago. He dressed like he could care less, but all the fabrics of his clothing were of good enough quality to stand out among the townsfolk. He made no show of his privilege, choosing instead to spend his days in the village, where he had many friends among the peasant populace, a thoroughly shocking revelation when one considered that he’d been presented at court at the age of ten)

"Have you considered speaking to him?" Azazel'd continued, taking no cue from his leader's stubborn silence.

Erik had grunted a vague dissent and stalked on his way, ignoring the fluttering in his chest at the thought. Of course he'd intended on talking with the boy. Someday soon they would happen to bump into one another on the fruit market – no, better still, the orchard which separated the Xavier residence from the village, the orchard which bloomed white and pink in the spring, where there was a path cutting diagonally from the last of the village houses to the mansion grounds – and Erik wouldn’t apologise for the inconvenience, but he would introduce himself. He'd always been planning to do so, he'd said, scowling at an incautious milkmaid. He was just waiting for an opportune moment.

The girl had scurried, close to tears, and Erik had continued on his way, contemplating the merits of spring versus summer, or even early autumn. Spring would come awash in white petals, but in the summer the colours were most vibrant. Autumn, of course, boasted ruddy apples, a sight not to be ignored when apples seemed to be Charles’ favourite fruit.

That had been in autumn. It was winter now. It was not the winter which had followed the autumn in question.

* * *

 

The memories swam through Erik's mind as he and Emma made their way through the white streets of Boursin, following the fresh trail to the inn. He remembered that girl. Or to be precise he remembered the fact of her existence, as thus far he'd only seen her once, and she'd been a skinny child, getting into a carriage at the time, aided by her brother's hand. She must have returned from her schooling in the meantime, although what schooling provided a young lady with the audacity to dress herself in a masculine fashion, when her shapely body deserved a better framing.

He kept his observations to himself, even when the girl stood up straight and proud before them, ready to make her case as compelling as possible. Once Erik and his company were safely seated on the bed and chairs of Emma’s room at the inn, she told what was quite possibly the wildest tall tale Erik had had the pleasure of hearing in his entire life, and it was at this point where it had to be mentioned his father had earned his daily bread as a storyteller. They all listened nonetheless, because the girl was talented; the words grew more elaborate as she spoke, the forest and the castle layered in enchantment and wonder, with a touch of fright to spice up the tale, masterfully coached in the local myths about a strange apparition which stole into people's homes and laid enchantments about them, when they failed to do its bidding.

"My name is Raven," she said halfway through, in the middle of a pause for a drink of water. "I thought you might as well know. I was travelling in the first place because there is a fair in the other town, and there is an acting troupe I often aid while they are in the vicinity."

Then she began anew, and this time the story turned frightening: there was a monster there, a ferocious beasts with claws and fur, which spoke in barks and roars, but spoke nonetheless, demanding tribute and sacrifice and horrid things.

"I tried to run," Raven said in a hushed whisper. "I had my knife and so I stabbed the creature and I ran, but the knife is small and I fear I barely pierced its hide. It caught up in no time at all, and I thank my lucky stars it threw me in the dungeon in spite of the horrid threats it made beforehand.

"There I spent a cold night, until, well into the morning hours, past noon perhaps, I heard a voice that was not the Beast’s and I saw my dear brother, who’d come to my aid. The misfortune was such that the Beast had caught him, but my brother, being in possession of a silver tongue, managed to persuade it to let me leave, offering himself in my absence.

"I took the chance to run," she said, wringing her hands. "I was no match for the monster and Charles—my darling Charles is too kind to kill animals for food, let alone thinking creatures." A forlorn expression clouded her pretty face, until, like a sunrise, a wicked grin chased the gloom away. "…and then I thought to myself, well, who do I know who’s been a useless bugger thus far, staring at Charles for hours and then running off at the drop of a hat. I dared to hope that this would be the day when the frightening admirer finally got the nerve to ask, instead of running away like a little puppy, who can’t seem to work up the nerve to paw at his master but would follow him incessantly and yip for attention, until the oblivious master would finally get the clue and chase after it."

Erik stared at her over his glass of bourbon, slack-jawed, having stopped listening sometime after the moment she claimed the animal talked, and was therefore mercifully spared the indignity of having to react to the rest of her speech. "You honestly expect me to believe that there is a giant talking monster just around the corner? Have you partaken in one too many cups of ale?"

"You know, whatever," Raven said and crossed her arms. "Here are my final words: my brother is alone and trapped in the ruined castle. I don’t want to go there alone, because I’m afraid of giant, ruined castles in the dark. He’s no hero in the scary dark castle department, either. I’m sure he’ll be extremely grateful if he is rescued, because he’s an honest sort of chap and appreciates it when a big strong man comes to his rescue when asked politely. But I see that’s none of your business, so hey, I’ll go talk to Logan. Logan has an axe and he likes Charles." Raven’s generous mouth quirked into a smirk worthy of Azazel's scarred visage. "He likes Charles a lot. Charles likes him too, actually. I’m sure that if Logan risked his life Charles would be extremely grateful. Extremely."

Unfortunately, Erik knew Logan, and by knew he meant he’d seen him talk with Charles a few times, while standing way too close and smiling in an entirely too suggestive a manner. Erik didn’t like Logan. He didn’t like him at all. In fact, now that he thought about Logan he thought about all the people he planned on fighting and stomping on and they all wore Logan’s ugly face.

Emma stretched like a cat, stood from her chair, poured a glass of wine and offered it to Raven with a gracious incline of her head. "My hat goes off to you, young lady. T’was the work of a master and I offer my compliments, even if you could use schooling in subtlety."

"Thank you," Raven said and downed the wine. She set the cup down with a barely perceptible shake of her hands and stared at the five of them, hard, with her bottom lip trembling hardly at all.

"Well, gentlemen and Angel, the night is young and we can dedicate it to rescuing the pretty boy from a dark cellar." Emma smiled at Erik with the corners of her mouth and finished her drink. "Be sure to pack your warm clothes, everyone, and extra provisions, because chances are we will be staying the night. We leave in an hour."

"An hour? But it’s at least three hours on horseback; shouldn’t we leave as soon as possible?" Raven clutched the edges of her coat, leaping out of her seat.

"You insist on the inevitability of a fight, my dear. We can’t leave unprepared. If the castle is as far as you claim, we will need supplies, too, unless you intend for us to suffer frostbite and hunger in the morning. I presume this brother of yours is clever enough to keep himself warm for a night."

"I wouldn’t bet on it, but he is no fool." Raven let out a long sigh and sunk onto her chair. "Thank you all the same," she said and the years visible when she smirked or frowned melted away, leaving behind only a child that Erik, to his own surprise, wanted to pat on the head and comfort. "I just hope he’s well. He has to be well."

"What harm can come to him, really. If he’s locked in a cellar, the most that will happen is a cold." Or mice. There could be mice. Erik frowned at his glass of brandy. He’d been in a ruined castle once, and it wasn’t a good night he'd had. The place was draughty and the mice attracted cats and the cats attracted wolves, and the wolves made the places their home, oftentimes dragging their kill and doing scary wolf-dances, which attracted the bears, because the bears were conniving beasts, which never wasted a chance to crash a party and spirits.

In fact, the longer he thought about it, the less peaceful his mind became. Charles was young and lovely, and unsuited to hardship. He must be very scared, sitting alone among the ruins, with snow dusting in from all sides. It struck Erik then that Raven was wearing Charles’ great coat, the one with golden embroidery at the cuffs and neck. Charles'd had it with him last winter, when he'd spent a whole evening at the pub, laughing and drinking. The coat had been hanging on a nail, close to where Erik'd been sitting, close enough in fact that Erik could smell the faint aroma of fresh pine that clung to its folds (Charles had spent some time at the carpenter’s that afternoon, and carried a wooden trinket in his pocket with him).

If Charles was out there without a coat, he must be huddling for warmth. He was probably very scared, too, staring out into the night with a forlorn look on his pretty face. It was a look that Erik had witnessed once, three weeks after he first laid his eyes on the boy, and hadn’t been able to forget since. On that particular day he'd found his entire mind occupied by the ardent need to take Charles into his arms and kiss the despondency off his face, until he could get a smile, and another, and maybe a wanton moan. And then…

But Charles wasn’t in his arms, Charles was alone and scared, trembling in a cellar of a ruined castle. It was upon Erik to rescue him right away, and take him home where he’d be safe and protected, fetch him tea and something hot and filling to eat, then watch as he fell asleep and maybe kiss him before that, and it would be wonderful and magnificent, to be able to kiss him when he lay in bed, warm and lovely, and Erik’s.

The fantasy was as desirable as it was unattainable, however. Charles and Erik were very different people. To begin with, they were both men, which was heavily frowned upon in most circles, not to mention Charles was a proper young gentleman, with a stunning propensity for spending nights at his friends’ abodes, despite being in possession of a well-kept home of his own. Erik didn't begrudge him the need for company, when his sister studied abroad and busied herself with her own matters when she was present; surely even the cosiest home had to seem lonely.

The last thought, the notion of loneliness, set Erik on fire. He shot out of his chair and gathered his weapons and spare cloak into one pile, which he stuffed into a satchel. A glance into a mirror told him that his hair was exceptionally ginger on this evening, which could be either good or bad, depending on how Charles felt about dashing ginger heroes. Hopefully good. Ginger was a lucky colour, certainly Erik’s lucky colour. On the other hand, his moustache needed a trim. He'd trimmed it two nights ago, but facial hair was so pesky! Charles probably didn’t even shave yet; he certainly didn’t look like he needed to. Maybe he didn’t care for beards. Erik should shave. Charles looked like his skin was exceptionally delicate.

"You are unbelievable," Raven said, startling Erik out of his reverie. She was still seated on the padded chair, with a glass trapped between her hands, and she was staring at Erik in fascinated curiosity. This was a touch odd, as he’d been certain she left briefly when Emma demanded help with supplies, but then he was prone to losing himself in his own thoughts.

"What are you still doing here?" he asked, nudging the mirror aside and pretending it was never there to begin with.

"Waiting. I’ve been packed since before I went looking for you."

Erik considered her outfit: the tall boots, masculine trousers and shirt, not to mention Charles’ coat, all comfortable and worn, suitable for riding and a fight. More importantly, there was a rapier at her side, and, if the narrow leather strap around her thigh was any indication, also a knife.

She was oddly serious about the creature, it would seem. One had to wonder what peculiar notions travelled through the minds of girl with an overabundance of education. Certainly nothing grounded in reality.

"You shouldn’t be going," he said. "You’d get lost and there would be trouble."

Raven considered him with a look far beyond her tender years. "I hasten to point out that I’m the one who knows where the castle is," she drawled, stretching her trouser-clad legs in front of her. "Did you even know there was a ruined castle within a day's ride?"

The lady made a valid point. Erik returned to his seat and cast aside all remainders of reality, content in his recollections of the youth they were going to rescue.


	3. Monsieur Lehnsherr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik didn't quite understand why Raven was leading his people through the snow-covered streets and off the beaten track, because a blind pig could have followed the two sets of horse-prints which followed the road out of town and then abruptly took a turn into the thickest part of the forest.

Erik didn't quite understand why Raven was leading his people through the snow-covered streets and off the beaten track, because a blind pig could have followed the two sets of horse-prints which followed the road out of town and then abruptly took a turn into the thickest part of the forest. He didn't need this chit of a girl to follow the faint indentations hidden under a layer of freshly fallen snow to know the way; in fact he was already composing a long diatribe on why her presence was entirely superfluous. He was ready to begin his commentary, when Raven tugged her horse's head left, between two trees, and disappeared completely. Erik held the reins tight and stared in disbelief. There were no tracks leading to the narrow passage, on account of the trees being too dense to admit snow on that particular patch of ground, and if it wasn't for the tail-end of Raven's horse the turn would have remained undetected.

Erik followed, riding between two walls of tree and stone, situated so close together that his knees brushed one side or the other in turn. He grudgingly allowed that Raven's presence was required, for the time being, when they emerged from the passage onto a narrow shelf overlooking a steep cliff, its base a mess of gnarly roots and a frozen river. He didn't comment and avoided Emma's gaze, particularly when she sniggered into her hand and quietly shared her insight with Angel, who confided in Azazel, who whispered it to Janos, who, given the choice between Erik and Raven, passed it on to Raven, who let out a boisterous laugh and said nothing whatsoever to anyone, but smirked at Erik whenever he would glance her way.

Erik hated his companions. Truly.

The further they travelled, the more doubtful he became of the endeavour. Too many things were unknown, too many details too fantastic, and while Raven certainly was Charles' sister (Erik had spent too much time gathering precious intel to miss the fact that Charles had a sister and that she was a blonde beauty), her story was less than stellar. For another thing, he had yet to work out what he was going to say to Charles. He should probably offer his name to begin with; he didn't think they could progress far without it. That was a good place to start, especially since he already knew Charles'.

On second thought, he probably shouldn't call him Charles just yet. They haven't been introduced. Not properly, anyway, because naturally they have seen one another. At least Erik has seen Charles quite often. The reverse was not necessarily always true. But what of it? Charles was the most handsome creature in the entire village, and Erik was going to look at whatever he found most pleasing to look at, damn whoever told him otherwise.

"I am beginning to comprehend the dire situation you find yourself in," he heard Raven say to Emma. "Is he actually useful for anything?"

"Oh, absolutely," Emma said lightly. "There is no one that can match Erik in a wrestling tournament; one bite and the competitor is out of the ring."

Raven stood up in the stirrups as the horse climbed over an upturned tree. "That doesn't seem sporting."

"You haven't seen a wrestling match until you've seen Erik win it, trust me." Azazel offered one of his best smiles, the kind where his lips parted over his unnaturally sharp teeth, lending him the visage of Mephistopheles, about to offer his unholy services.

"As I recall I did win your allegiance thus," Erik said, and ceased speaking altogether, even—especially!—when his band broke into a song. He was dismayed to discover they had finally found a rhyme for "Lehnsherr". If their pursuits had any other objective and yielded results less cringe-worthy, he might have applauded the sheer effort that must have gone into the endeavour. As it were, all he could do was sigh.

They travelled for two hours, not that Erik was counting. Travelling through the part of the forest which was dark and dreary lent itself well to worrying how Charles must have felt, riding through the darkness on his own, seeking his sister. How much terror must had he felt, braving the snow-covered forest, where every tree looked exactly alike and every mound was certain to yield a nest of bears, and how much had that terror deepened, when he discovered that the creature waiting at the end of the journey was a nightmarish monster?

Erik pulled his horse short and cursed. A short ride through a snowy forest, and he began hallucinating, because what else would be call those wild fantasies Raven fed him as fact? Oh yes, that forecasted a long and illustrious career, when he was so easily taken in by a girl's tales that he ordered his merry band onto their horses and into a desolate forest, chasing down a wayward shadow, weaving throughout the trees, distant, but gaining definition, until finally the bulk of it flattened an entire mound of snow, tearing up the silence with a roar.

Erik fell of his horse. These things happened: horses spooked easily, even the best of them, and it was folly to expect a dumb beast not to spook when a monster leapt from the shadows to deliver a blood-curdling roar into its snout.

Beast, Erik thought, wasting precious time by staring up at the shadow which towered over him. An enormous beast, whose glowing eyes considered him with a ravenous glee and hunger, hardly surprising in wintertime, when game was skinny and tough to chew. Its eyes gleamed a ferocious red, unnaturally bright in the moonlight. Erik rolled to the side, drawing his rapier mid-turn, coming up on one knee, braced for another attack.

He heard Angel gasp, a heartbeat before her crossbow whistled and arrow pierced the beast's eye.

"Mission accomplished, yes?" Azazel dismounted and prodded the fallen creature with his sword, driving it deep enough into the flesh to ensure it stopped twitching. "The beast is dead." And a beast it was. Erik stood and nudged its head to the side, frowning deeply. It was neither a bear nor wolf, for it was too small to be the former and too muscular for the latter. Its legs were unnaturally long, considering its body, and Erik couldn't help recalling it had come on him standing as a man would.

They had slain the mysterious beast, it seemed, he thought, profoundly relieved to see no trace of blood on its fur that didn't seem to have come from its own wounds. All that remained was finding the unfortunate boy.

"It is not the Beast I've seen," Raven said. Erik looked at her and found her pallor disturbing. "Sir – it is not the Beast. It is smaller. The fur is too dark. I know what I saw, and you may trust me when I say that what I see fallen before me now is not the Beast which took my brother prisoner."

This changed matters some. This changed the matters as little as sun changes the night when it arrives upon the skies, Erik thought, the longer he looked, because this was a thing of nightmares, like a bear, but at the same time not like a bear at all, nor any creature to grace the pages of a scientific book. The teeth were too sharp and the maw too flat, giving it an appearance not unlike that of a human, and to be told that the beast had a castle which it built and maintained to its specification! That this thing, or one of its ilk, maintained a dungeon!

There was a dungeon in the forest, then, a dungeon guarded by a beast – possibly beasts – and Charles was kept in that dungeon, awaiting rescue.

Erik mounted without a second thought and spurred his horse on, causing the poor creature to whinny and rear, but it was too well trained not to respond to a command. He would liberate Charles from the monster's clutches, thereby winning his affection, he swore to himself, as he drew the attention of his brethren and commanded that they stop wasting time with their yammering.

He knew they'd follow him, just as he knew they always would, so, in his magnanimity, he ignored the chorus of the song, which rolled through the dark forest like the hooves of an angry cavalry of voluptuous, metal-plated women, proving thusly that Erik's merry band hardly knew Erik at all. His relationship with giant, metal-plated woman was more of a phobia than it was a philia, although Erik felt he was in no way singular in that. What man or woman wouldn't run from two thousand pounds of an armed woman on a horse, he asked, daring his fictional opponent to name names, so that he may in turn avoid them too.

The possibility of the invasion of oversized Nordic women kept him occupied through the final hour of the journey, and in fact so infested his mind that he might have jumped in the saddle when the castle sprang into being before them, said apparition preceded by a stone figure of a winged woman, who held a sword in her hand.

"Do let's begin by vanquishing the sculpture, I'm sure the venture will be rewarded," Raven said loudly.

"Quiet," Erik instructed. "Which way to the dungeon?"

"Follow me." Raven dismounted and tied the reins to the stone sword, completely failing to take into account the possibility of the monster hiding within. It would be just like monsters, Erik thought grimly, maintaining the pretence of being stone angels, all the while waiting for their prey to arrive, letting the snow pile up on their heads and shoulders. Well, Erik wasn't going to be prey. He tied the reins of his horse to the iron gates instead, glaring at Raven all the while.

She led the six of them through a narrow corridor by the kitchens, past a grand hall and down a narrow stone staircase, into a dark, dreary pit of despair. The only source of light was a narrow window, high up on the wall, which allowed a touch of moonlight and no more. Despite this, the abundance of spiderfolk and their handiwork was obvious.

"These are spiders, Erik, they aren't going to eat you," Emma said, patting his shoulder. "In any case, we have your back, should they try."

"I don't fear spiders," he said sullenly, prodding the thickest web with his rapier. The wool-like construction covered an entire corner of the door, thus being a considerable threat, yet Erik was only half-hearted with his prodding, for fear of dragging the sticky mess down or heaven forbid having it stuck to his shoes or coat.

He may have closed his eyes at that point and dove through the doorway, keeping his head down. Then, inexplicably, it got worse, although not with a spider invasion, for which, at least, Erik was grateful.

"In here!" Raven called, rushing ahead to a door which looked marginally less dusty than the rest. "Charles!"

There was silence. There continued to be silence when Raven rattled the bars and called again, and there was less silence when Azazel took a torch off the wall and lit it, because the damn thing spit and sputtered, but still no intelligent reply, caused by the absence of intelligent life in the relevant cell.

"He's not here!" Raven said tearfully, turning to Erik with her eyes wide-open and demanding… something. "He was here!"

"I can see that." Erik glanced inside for all of thirty seconds, confirmed that the most that could be found in the tiny stone dungeon was a handful of snow and more spiders, then turned away. A heavy dread settled somewhere in his chest, clawing and mewling and generally demanding attention. What if Charles was hurt? What if the beast had eaten him for a light snack in the evening, while he was busy drinking ale and dodging Emma's well-meaning advice? He would never forgive himself if that was the case, never; failing to rescue Charles from being consumed by a strange new species of a monster, hitherto unslain by a man – well, if Erik wasn't able to save Charles, then certainly he was going to avenge him.

He turned to his crew with an anger he couldn't account for burning in his heart, but the beginning of his lovingly nourished "we can avenge him" speech was interrupted by an explosion from somewhere upstairs. It was loud enough to send a shower of dust spiralling from the ceiling, although Emma, mercifully, threw the edge of her cloak over Erik's head, sparing him the indignity of being forced to scream about spiders in his hair.

"Do let's investigate," she said. "Erik, escort Miss Xavier, Azazel and I will patrol the first floor, while Angel and Janos should stand watch in the great hall, so that they may alert us in case of trouble."

"We shouldn't separate," Erik began, but Angel and Janos were already ascending the steps which would lead them to the great hall, while Emma strode towards the other staircase, the one in the corner, dragging Azazel with her. "We really shouldn't."

"Let's hurry," Raven suggested, bearing the most tragic of all expressions on her face and a naked sword in her hand. "I can't bear to think what is happening to my poor brother."

Erik was having the same problem, actually, and he was about to have more. They climbed the same stairs they took on their way down, and proceeded to search the rooms there, beginning with the kitchen, as there was no indication of where the explosion had occurred, other than in all probability it happened on the ground floor, if it was so clearly heard in the dungeon. Luckily for the state of the investigation, as soon as they emerged from the kitchen, having found nothing whatsoever but a steaming pot of goulash, there was another explosion, this one much closer and clearer, followed by a scream.

"Charles!" Raven screamed in turn and she would have run where the voice indicated, were it not for Erik's arm catching her around the waist.

This was perhaps not the best time to discover the blue coat still smelled of pine and apple blossoms, Erik reflected, acutely aware that his nose was an inch away from the fabric. A gentleman should see the lady back to safety, the thought did cross Erik's mind, although in this particular case the lady was an adolescent girl dressed in her brother's clothes, who made no effort to disguise the fact that her femininity demanded better (hence the loose mass of golden locks, falling freely down the blue velvet). His consciousness was appeased by both Raven's efforts to avoid accusations of ladyship, and the fact that it would be a cold day in hell when he considered himself a gentleman.

"Let me go, imbecile!" Raven stomped on his foot and ran, leaving Erik to curse at her and her hard soles. He went running after her, urged forward by the mixture of hope and dread of seeing Charles where they were going.

It was a curious scene they encountered when they turned the corridor; there was a beast, no doubt – it had claws and a vicious set of teeth, but the expression on its face did not match the formidable array of weapons it sported. If Erik didn't know any better, he'd have to say this was a lost puppy, chasing after his own brain.

"What on god's green earth?" he heard Raven ask, before the creature paused, looked up and split into a dozen of rats, which immediately fled like the plague was after them.

Erik might have screamed. He wasn't admitting to anything.


	4. oh, he's so cute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moth caught a breeze of icy wind, coming from a nearby balcony, and took flight, disappearing through the door. Erik gave Raven a look, which she returned with a snort, and returned to their search.

They followed down the corridor, the direction chosen primarily because all of the rats ran the other way. Erik drew his rapier and made a point of keeping his pace slow, in case there were more surprises waiting around the corner, a measure which yielded results once they ascended a flight of stairs and began making their way down another wide corridor, not much different from the previous; a little cleaner maybe, and free of rats. To the left there was an open door, leading into what must have been a study of some sort, judging by the brighter lines all along the walls, where bookcases must have once stood. All the furniture had been stripped and not that long ago, leaving behind only a small, round table, on which there was a glass jar, covering a dry stalk, lying atop a handful of dry petals of indeterminable colour. This would have been the end of it, but as Erik stared something moved and a moth crawled onto the stalk, its wings the colour of the petals.

Erik couldn't say what he was thinking when he walked boldly to the table and set the moth free. He was wary of insects of all kinds, in fact wary of anything in possession of more than one leg, with the wariness growing at an exponential rate with every added appendage (with human beings moving along a separate, much steeper, curve), but he could never stomach living creatures in cages.

The moth caught a breeze of icy wind, coming from a nearby balcony, and took flight, disappearing through the door. Erik gave Raven a look, which she returned with a snort, and returned to their search.

It was eerily quiet now, Erik realised, even though he should still be hearing Angel and Janos bicker while they stand guard in the great hall, which had a tremendous echo. It was as though the castle was crying out a warning, in the only way it knew how: by staying silent.

Of course that was when Raven stopped in her tracks and gasped. "There!" she hissed, grasping Erik's arm and pointing. "That's the Beast!"

Erik followed her gaze and found the creature staring at him through the clear window, standing in the flurry of falling snow, tall and covered with dark fur. Charles was standing by its side, close enough to touch, with his lovely face upturned towards the Beast's.

"Go find the others," Erik commanded in a hushed tone. Like most of his whispers it came out as a contained roar, one that must have reached the ears of the monster, because it turned in his direction and stared, baring its teeth in a snarl, just as Raven disappeared around the corner.

Then it grasped Charles around the waist and leapt off the balcony.

Erik heard the panicked yelp and broke into a run, coming to a stop only when the railing assaulted his hipbones. The snow continued to drift towards the earth in weightless feathery flakes, obscuring all, but Erik had keen eyes and there, in the shadows, he saw movement: a great shape set something human-shaped down, moving with enough gentleness to win itself the favour of swift death. Charles was unharmed, not in pain. Erik sheathed his rapier, vaulted over the railing, grasped the edge of the balcony on his way down, let go and landed easily on the railing below.

"Let him go!" He remembered then that he had put away his sword so he drew it again and glared at the monster, which was still clutching Charles' waist with its enormous paw.

"Can we perhaps talk about it?" it asked, holding up the other paw.

Erik, disinclined to answer attempts at verbal communications at the best of times, charged. He succeeded in getting the beast to push Charles aside and leap back, landing on all fours. In the scant light of the lamps burning within the adjacent rooms its face looked even less human that it seemed at first glance. "I don't want to fight you!" it cried, standing up straight.

"Then don't."

It was surreal enough to have the thing talk, although of course Erik didn't have a habit of conversing with his prey. It was much easier that way.

Considering easy, though, lead to alarming conclusions. The beast gave way with surprising eagerness. Erik had never fought an opponent more keen to be backed into a corner. He scented a trap, and he was not wrong, even if the trap turned out to be less sophisticated than he imagined. As he thrust forward the rapier to finally draw some blood (because while the beast might have been eager to leap straight into a corner, it was in no hurry to let itself be scratched), his blade rebounded from a stick of a broom, flying back at his face. He had exactly no time to parse the strange new development, because the stick withdrew, turned, and smacked his wrist, then came up again, gained momentum, and struck the side of his head, at the same place that the rapier had cut.

"Goodness, the man is trying to speak to you!" Charles said, brandishing the broom in a most threatening manner. "What on earth possessed you to invade his home like this?"

Erik found himself agape and more confused than not. Charles stood between him and the beast, holding the broom in such a way that indicated he would not shy away from using it again, while the throbbing pain in Erik's wrist and temple indicated the fancy garb hid a body not unused to physical work. Most of all, there was the fierce anger that stood at odds with the smiles Erik was used to seeing on his face, anger that Erik would much sooner expect from Emma or Azazel.

"Come now, say a word in your defence, or we will drag you out into the snow without it." The point of the stick drew back to a height Erik could tell would cause considerable hurt, if it fell.

"Charles!"

Erik exhaled. Raven was running down the corridor, with her rapier drawn, and behind her there was Emma and the rest of Erik's company.

"Raven! Good grief, what are you wearing?" Charles let the broomstick drop, so that he may prop his weight against it. "I can see your legs!"

"Then your eyes are in worse shape than I imagined, as I'm wearing perfectly respectable trousers." Raven paused at the balcony door to regain the breath lost in uttering the sentence. "Here: I brought your glasses. See for yourself." She delved deep into the pocket of the coat and came up with a pair of spectacles, which, when Charles refused to come forward to claim them, she stepped forth and placed on his nose anyway. "You really shouldn't leave the house without them."

"I don't like spectacles," Charles said with only a touch of petulance. Then, "Is this my coat?" As he said it he shivered, as if only just now it occurred to him that the weather was not only running its wintery course and sprinkling copious amounts of snow on whatever strayed outside, but also employed the wind to steal into unguarded doorways and windows.

"Goodness, I completely forgot," said the beast, raising from where it was crouched, peeling off its jacket and draping it over Charles' shoulders, mindless of the way Raven shrieked and leaped back, of how Erik's company drew their weapons in alarm.

"Thank you, Henry," Charles said. "Won't you be cold?"

"Oh, the jacket is more habit than need, I assure you."

"Charles!" Raven shrieked, and quite frankly if Erik had had the powers of speech at his disposal, he wouldn't have found himself above shrieking either. "Get away from it!"

"Really, my dear," Charles said with a frown. "You are a lady. You must show some decorum."

"Do excuse me," Raven said, then folded her arms over her breasts and in a high-pitched voice continued, "dearest brother, I fear I see a beast encroaching on your person, I beg of thee, come, let us abscond into safety, while we still can."

"… the barest minimum of which is not insulting the host in his own house."

"But he's a beast!"

Charles blinked at her in a somewhat owlish fashion then turned to look over his shoulder at Henry's face, then down at the rest of him. By the slackness of his mouth Erik surmised this was the first time he truly perceived the nature of the beast, even though there was not a hint of fear about him that Erik could detect. "You are quite extraordinary, my friend," he said in the end. "I see now, the fur must keep you warm. I thought it a peculiar set of underwear."

"It has its uses, I admit." The beast straightened up, standing a good head taller than Charles, even though its bare, clawed feet continued to shuffle, as though it couldn't bear to stand still.

"Excuse me," Emma drawled, as was her wont when the situation provided not enough information for her to eke out a plan of action. Still, Erik noted her crossbow was now trained on the floor and the arrow in her hand rather than on the notch. "I think I speak for everyone at this point when I pose the question: are you in need of rescuing, boy, or not?"

"Firstly, I strongly object to being called boy, madam," Charles said, hiding his hands in the folds of the beast's jacket to ward off the winter chill. "I am six-and-twenty and a lord in my own right, please do refer to me as you would your equal."

"Sweetheart," Emma said, baring her teeth. "This is how I refer to my equals."

It had to be said: Charles let very little at all faze him, the surest mark of nobility. "In which case, there is the second matter: why on earth would you assume I am in need of rescuing?"

Raven bristled. "He threw me in the dungeon!" she yelled, pointing at the beast.

"Oh, I am so dreadfully sorry for that, Miss Raven!" Henry the beast cried out in a manner hitherto observed on earnest puppies rather than man-shaped monsters. "Please believe I meant you no harm, but every now and then a robber comes by, and most of them take no care with the valuable equipment, and I find the best way to deal with them is to let them get acquainted with the spiders in my dungeon and then send them on their way. They rarely come back."

"Well, maybe if you hadn't scared me half to death by leaping out of corners while I was trying to sleep, I wouldn't have tried to break your precious glass!"

Henry cowered in the face of her ire, to Erik's amazement, and hid behind Charles, who smiled. "Well, I'm so glad we cleared that up. Raven is sorry, too, I'm certain, and I will be happy to reimburse you – I believe no harm has been intended, so let us fix what we may and move on.

"Now, who are you?"

Erik was amazed to discover that he was the target of the question and in fact of the surprisingly cognisant gaze, not in the least obscured by the glasses. The latter was a shock, as he'd always assumed Charles would conform to a certain level of vapidity carried by the rest of the nobility like a powdered wig. Instead the boy looked straight at him with remarkable shrewdness, assessing him head to toe.

Raven coughed. "He's that frightening admirer you have. You know, the scary fellow who oftentimes stakes out the marketplace and follows you around. I went to ask him for help, since, you know, I thought you were being held prisoner by a frightful beast."

"Oh," Charles said, peering even more closely. "Interesting. I thought he was taller."

"He's kneeling now, Charles."

"Thank you, Raven, I rest easy knowing I can always count on you to provide support where I'm deficient." Charles seemed to have noticed the broomstick he was still holding, because he gazed down on it in horror and let it fall to the floor. Then, as if to completely destroy Erik's mind and soul, he crouched by his side, tilting Erik's head. "Oh dear. I'm so very sorry – I presumed you meant us harm. Poor Henry was in a dreadful state when he saw you – let me clean this up."

"Is he hurt?" Emma walked out onto the balcony as though this was her rightful property. This, at least, Erik couldn't be surprised by: she would treat the royal court in the self-same fashion.

"I fear I struck him on the head. I didn't think the blow carried too much force, however – there should be no lasting damage. I can't fathom why he's so still."

"Oh sugar, you've struck him quite hard, although I'm not sure to this day whether it was on the head." Emma crouched beside Charles, inspecting Erik's temple. "The damage doesn't seem great.

"We should perhaps take this inside." Emma stood and turned to Henry the Beast as though the moniker was a mere figure of speech. "I offer my most sincere apologies, sir. We were misinformed and led to believe that there was a need for a dashing rescuer to vanquish a kidnapper. We shall depart promptly, if you would be so kind as to let us revive our leader, who seems to have been struck dumb for the moment."

Henry flushed, although Erik assumed that was so only from the bashful way he hung his head. "Oh, it was probably my fault. I understand my appearance is extremely alarming. There are no hard feelings, let me assure you. In any case, I can't possibly let you leave now, the snowfall is dreadful and there are ravines all over the forest. I insist you stay the night – I am short on staff, but there are plenty of rooms to choose from and more than enough food."

"Thank you." Emma gestured at Azazel and Janos, who together, pulled Erik to his feet and lead him inside, sitting him down on a sofa, which helped to quell somewhat the shaking he felt from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.

"I'd like a boiling pot of water, please," Charles said. "And some bandages."

Henry nodded. At the clapping of his hands the fireplace, which had been laid carefully with dry pine, burst into flame. He disappeared and returned a short while later with a copper pot, filled to the brim with water, as well as a basin and an armful of bandages. Erik found that his dazed state brought forth the most pleasant imaginings, because it seemed that his errant company, along with Raven and the bashful Henry, filed out of the room, leaving Charles alone to soak a white kerchief in the hissing water and clean the side of his face.

"I'm terribly sorry," he said. "Raven leaps to conclusions awfully quickly, and it's true, I did find her here in the dungeon and chose to remain in her place. Then, however, I spoke with Henry, who was exceedingly polite, and when he explained his intentions and reasons I didn't have the heart to condemn him, as Raven did trespass and didn't make the best impression."

"You tried to reason with the beast?" Erik asked, knocking Charles' hand aside. He noted the kerchief was stained pink, and that his temple throbbed, but the spinning in his head diminished gradually, and at last he could speak, and when he could speak he could be angry once more. "Are you insane?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," Charles began with a frown.

And so it happened that the first conversation Erik had with Charles Xavier became an argument about the merits of diplomatic solutions in the face of glaring evidence that human reason need not apply. 


	5. be still, my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From there the blood seemed to have migrated into Charles' cheeks, which, Erik was shocked to discover, weren't quite as unblemished as he'd always assumed. A spatter of freckles dusted Charles' face, a few even spilled over the edge of his jaw to reach the collarbone.

Needless to say there were no blooming apple trees in sight and Erik was relatively certain no one was swooning. Certainly not himself, not when the boy – six-and-twenty, as if! For heaven's sake, any peasant child should have had the wisdom to run or fight when confronted with a creature of Henry's appearance – continued to insist on the merits of conversation with one's captor.

"You are absolutely ridiculous!" Charles shouted at long last, and this time, much like all of the previous, Erik took careful note of how the orange glow of the fire reflected in his blue eyes, even with the thick spectacles in the way. It helped not at all that throughout the talk he continued to dab the warm kerchief at the side of Erik's face, until the pink smudges left on its surface dissolved in the basin. From there the blood seemed to have migrated into Charles' cheeks, which, Erik was shocked to discover, weren't quite as unblemished as he'd always assumed. A spatter of freckles dusted Charles' face, a few even spilled over the edge of his jaw to reach the collarbone. "A man cannot approach everything and everyone with a drawn sword, else he'd bathe in blood all the time!"

"First of all, that is a rapier, not a sword," Erik said, secure enough to fight back, not quite secure enough to rise from where he was propped up by pillows, lest he lose the sensation of a warm hand at his brow. "I can't believe you can't tell the difference. Secondly, I'm not saying everything and everyone, but monsters who take people prisoner and throw them in the dungeon, absolutely!"

"Raven was trespassing and rather rudely at that. Henry had every right to detain her."

"Thank you, Charles, for the vote of confidence," Raven said.

Charles leapt to his feet just as Erik was startled into sitting up straight, bot having been unaware of their returned audience.

"I see you're feeling better," Angel said. For a brief moment, Erik felt profound relief that it wasn't Emma, but then he took in the quirk of Angel's lips and knew without a doubt he was doomed regardless.

"Anything else?" he asked, forcing his eyes to remain steady and forget whose warm breath he felt on the nape of his neck.

"The snow is getting worse." Angel bit her lip and looked over her shoulder to where there must have been a window. "It worries me."

Angel never reconciled with the climate. She suffered the winter months with good grace, but it took effort on her part, as it did for most natives of Seville – Janos suffered from the same affliction. "It's been snowing steadily every night for the past week, I'm sure it will pass soon," Erik said. "The winter won't last long."

Angel, however was no longer listening. Instead she stared out into the corridor, transfixed by whatever was thereout. "Erik," she began. "This worries me."

There was a flat note in her voice that had Erik leaping off the couch, drawing his rapier and joining Angel at the door. She was looking towards the balcony, but past that Erik didn't quite realise what he was seeing, not at first.

"Good grief," Charles said, freezing Erik in place by laying a palm on his shoulder. "Is the snow falling up?"

"It certainly seems to be." Raven joined them and likewise stood frozen before the anomalous weather.

Erik felt the air behind him tremble, and knew without a doubt that Charles was laughing as he spoke. "Thank you. I was worried somewhat that you had destroyed my glasses. It's reassuring to know that is not the case."

"Why would I destroy your glasses, I have no desire to become your seeing eyes, as there are plenty of things which demand my attention as it is." Raven kept her gaze fixed on the snowflakes as she spoke.

"I'm not blind!"

"You might as well be." Raven grinned brightly and Erik saw that Charles was scowling at her, with his palm still cupping Erik's bony shoulder through the jacket. He could scarcely breathe for the closeness, overwhelmed with the ridiculousness of it all.

Then, just as the novelty of the snow began to wear off and Erik was gearing up to investigate, a shadow of a man appeared on the balcony, unbothered by the snowflakes or the wind. "Interesting," the apparition said, drawling the syllables like his time in the world was infinite. "So Henry made himself some friends."

"Ah," Charles said. His fingers tightened on Erik's shoulder convulsively and trembled, betraying fear, for the first time in Erik's memory.

"Who are you and what do you want?" Erik asked, stepping forward. He felt, more acutely than he thought possible, the hand sliding off his arm as he did so. He missed the weight already.

"Why, didn't Henry tell you all about me? I'm hurt." The man hopped off the railing onto the balcony and sauntered towards the door. He was dressed in clothing Emma would raise a brow at and commend for recreating the feeling of an epoch past, a heavy robe and a peculiar helmet, which had been dredged from the reaches of antiquity without pause for the intervening centuries. To Erik's inexpert eye it looked bronze and, although better than nothing, it wouldn't stand against a sword. The overall effect was one part comical (Erik owed Emma a superficial knowledge of fashion through the centuries and what was appropriate at a given time) and three parts menacing, as only a madman with a no weapon in sight and supreme confidence can be.

"I might have asked him to stop if he tried. Let me ask again, who are you, and what do you want?" The tip of his rapier rose steadily through the air, until it was pointed at the visitor.

"This is quite interesting," the man said, approaching with a smile upon his face, as though Angel wasn't drawing her own. "Curious even."

The handle of Erik's blade grew hot, unbearably so, until he was forced to let it fall from his hand. A sharp hiss to his left indicated Angel meeting with the same fate, while the sorcerer stopped right next to Erik, directly in front of Charles, but separated from Erik's discarded weapon by its owner, and stared. "Curious! Who might you be?"

"Charles Xavier, sir. May I inquire who wishes to know?" Charles said, squaring his shoulders and banishing the fright from bleeding into his posture.

The helmeted stranger ignored his question entirely, putting a finger to his chin and tapping. "Xavier… Let me consider, there was a Lord Xavier in these parts for a while, yes? Quite the line, as I recall. Quite so, quite so. One can scent noble blood in the air, you know. So very few so-called lords have the scent about them nowadays."

"The jacket is Henry's actually," Charles said, and Erik caught Raven's eye over his head. She had inched beyond the doorway of the room in which Erik'd had half of his fantasies ground into powder, so it was likely that her departure would be overlooked by the stranger. Clever girl that she was, Raven blinked in affirmation and began edging back into the room they just vacated, and to the door on its opposite side, which would hopefully see her delivered downstairs. Charles, meanwhile, continued speaking. "Can I help you, in any way?"

"You seem like good material," the strange man enthused. "No wonder Henry called. How would you like to join me?" He clasped his hands in front of him, rubbing one against the other, all the while staring down at Charles with his eyes bleeding hunger.

Charles, in turn, frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, you would have to begin by serving, naturally, before you could be elevated, but a bright little thing like you, I'm sure you could manage in less than two-three decades. Servitude breeds character, wouldn't you say?" He gripped Charles' chin with two fingers and tilted his head back a touch, running his thumb along the edge of Charles' smooth jaw, already lost in a daydream. Erik realised with a sense of dread that he knew the daydream being dreamt, and he didn't like to see it splayed on a face other than his own.

He prided himself on being able to hold on to his temper no matter the circumstances. He'd managed to keep his cool throughout a prison sentence, being stuck in a tree during a flood, three blizzards, a raft voyage through the Channel, the entirety of his acquaintance with Emma, and even, memorably, through what was going to be his execution. Right now he found himself gripping the unknown man by the shoulder and ripping him from Charles' side.

This turned out to have been a regrettable course of actions.

The sorcerer, for who else could make the snow oppose the earth's pull, screeched, pointed a finger at him and said something Erik took to be unflattering, following which he grew in size and Erik, well, leapt, dug his tiny claws into his leg, scrambled up his trousers, got under the jacket and bit down.

The shriek was the greatest reward any man could ever dream of. Unfortunately, it was followed by an enormous hand gripping him around the middle and throwing him across the room, where he landed quite painfully on a wall before falling, having failed to find purchase for his tiny, tiny claws.

What? Erik asked himself, when Charles skidded to a stop at his side, gathered him to his chest and murmured a soothing, "Shh, stay calm, darling, stay calm. We shall fix this, I promise."

Erik had stopped listening practically before he started, because he got a noseful of Charles when he was gathered and held, and unless he was much mistaken, simultaneously petted. Noisy sorcerers were not such a bad thing, he thought, stretching luxuriously and rejoicing in the knowledge that he was being held by Charles, that his nose was tucked in the warm fold of collar, which rested against Charles' collarbone, and there were fingers stroking the fur on his back. Erik could get used to being a ferret.

By god, he was a ferret!

Erik let out a high-pitched squeal, wiggled out of Charles' arms and ran for it. His little brain flooded with panic, exacerbated by the vastness of the open space above and around him, so once he got down the first stairs he ducked into the nearest door and burrowed into a mound of pillows, and when that wasn't cover enough, he bit a hole in a cover and crawled inside, nestling among the feathers.

It was dark, and soft. Erik curled up so that his head rested on his hip which was an astonishingly comfortable position to plot in, he found, so plot he did, while his nose comforted the rest of his body with the knowledge that no human being visited his pile of pillows in years, as the dusty smell of emptiness proved.

If there was any doubt that they were dealing with sorcery, this put them to rest. Anyone capable of cursing a grown man into a ferret had to be a sorcerer. Erik nodded decisively. This was a fact. Secondly, ferret he may be, but he'd be damned before he let that bastard of a sorcerer wander the halls. Certainly not when he exhibited such an unhealthy interest in Charles, going as far as touching him! No, Erik was not going to stand for it. This, too, was fact, and a fact that needed no further consideration. He uncurled his body and slowly made his way through the cushion, back to the hole he'd come through. Charles needed to be rescued, and rescued promptly.

He began his rescue mission by peering out of the cosy cushion to survey the situation from relative safety. The room was still empty. As far as first steps went, Erik found that an unguarded, secure location was optimal. The first step oftentimes dictated the entire operation, thus it helped if it wasn't taken under pressure. Erik emerged from the cushiony cocoon and stood on the edge of the couch. To an outside observer he would be surveying the distance which separated him from the floor, which was not inconsiderable when factoring his current size, but that was not what gripped Erik's attention. No, what held him enthralled were his own two front feet – or rather paws. He had sharp claws there, sharp enough to remain on the couch even when he was leaning so far over the edge he should have already fallen. Being a ferret had its uses, Erik thought smugly, turning his head to admire the smooth fur lining his back. In the half-light of an unused room it was almost red.

To Erik's delight someone had put an old mirror on the floor by the couch, and though it was covered with a sheet, the material was old and came apart when he started clawing on it. He was a glorious ferret, he thought when most of the material fell to the floor and revealed a murky reflection of glowing eyes and reddish fur. He was the best ferret there could possibly be. Erik puffed out his chest and sat up on his hind legs.

Of course, there was the chance that Charles didn't care for ferrets. Not to mention his career – being a wanted bandit rather required not being a ferret. Although there were some advantages to being able to run down peoples' sleeves and bite them when there was nothing they could do about it but flail in terror.

A blood-curling scream came from without. Erik abandoned his contemplation of the possibility of living his life as a ferret without giving up its quality and ran back to where they'd encountered the sorcerer. He found the corridor empty, save for his rapier and clothes, piled in the middle. He stared at his weapon, morose. The numerous advantages of having small, sharp claws didn't include handling weaponry forged for a human being. Erik sat on the cold carpet, staring down at the handle of the rapier. What could he possibly do, tiny as he was? What help could he possibly be to anyone, powerless to even lift a knife, let alone a sword?

The choice was taken out of his hands by a crash and another scream, arriving from the direction of the ballroom. Erik leapt over his own abandoned boot and raced to the stairs, stuck his head between the railing supports and considered the scene playing out before him.

The sorcerer stood near the grand entrance to the castle, close to two polished suits of armour, balancing twin balls of flame in his hands. The expression on his face, obscured by the shifting shadows of the helmet, bordered on insanity.

This was not good, Erik decided, digging his claws into the carpet. The sorcerer faced ten people altogether – aside from Erik's companions, Raven, Charles and Henry, there were three other young men, one of whom was badly hurt. All three wore servants' clothes, though rich ones, indicating with little room for error that they made up the staff of the castle.

It was a sad castle that boasted only three youngsters to keep it going, not that Erik was surprised, given its state disarray. Why, the curtains on the window looked like a single tug would send them spiralling down onto somebody's head! In a stunning moment of clarity Erik looked down upon the battle and saw the scant distance separating the sorcerer from the wall on which the heavy curtain rested. If there was a screw that could be loosened, such a mass of heavy brocade couldn't possibly fail to distract the man. But how to get there, without attracting attention? Erik pondered the architecture of the room, pacing along the railing. A moment's investigation revealed a narrow ledge that ran from the railing he was currently hiding behind to the opposite wall, just wide enough for a single ferret to navigate.

By god, Erik would be that ferret!

The sorcerer laughed maniacally, even as he raised his hand to point at Emma, before muttering a foreign phrase. Emma, for her part, would not be deterred by the muttering of a madman; she held her crossbow taut and let the arrow fly. It passed through the faint flicker of light flittering toward her. The light spread over her flesh, eating into it as fire devours kindling. Erik prayed that she wasn't hurt, and it was only a small consolation that she didn't utter a sound as all movement ceased. When he dared to look again he saw she'd been frozen into an icy sculpture, wrapped in white, with a crossbow clutched in her hands, ready to fire.

The arrow, Erik noted with disappointment, had dissolved before it reached its mark.

"Emma!" Angel and Azazel cried in unison, then leapt back when two more flashes travelled past their noses. Erik paused, high on his ledge, and trembled. From the current vantage point he saw that the man on the floor had half of his body badly burned, Emma was an icy statue and Raven – Raven's previously creamy white skin was now a vivid blue. She huddled behind Henry, who fumbled through a spell or two himself, but for the most part dodged the attacks rather than fought back. His other two servants were of little help, having been cowed by the damage done to their friend, and Erik didn't blame them in the slightest. It would take a madman to stand against a madman, especially when the latter had magic at his disposal.


	6. I'm hardly breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Henry is a disappointment," the sorcerer said, pointing to Charles and grinning. "He showed some promise, but failed to deliver. It is just as well I discard him in turn. I do owe him thanks, in that he has alerted me to the presence of a possible replacement."

Erik curled his spine and vowed to himself that as soon as they defeated the sorcerer, his company would invade a library and steal every book on magic they could get their hands on. He would not stand to be surprised like this again; he would not stand to see his companions lose their lives to a madman in an ancient helmet.

"Really, there is no cause for this," Charles said unexpectedly, Erik stopped, once more stretching his head between the railings, seeking out Charles among the battle. "First of all, you are destroying Henry's home, which is incredibly rude."

"Henry is a disappointment," the sorcerer said, pointing to Charles and grinning. "He showed some promise, but failed to deliver. It is just as well I discard him in turn. I do owe him thanks, in that he has alerted me to the presence of a possible replacement."

"I think you may be mistaken, casting him off so soon." No sooner had Charles spoken, than a ball of flame sailed from the direction of the subject of discussion and splintered against the sorcerer's hastily thrown out arm. Erik froze where he stood, shocked into silence, when he spied – well, inferred, at this distance – the boils appearing on the sorcerer's hand.

His heart fluttered at the sight. The sorcerer could be tricked, so he could be defeated! But the flutter died down as soon as it began, when he perceived the change that descended on the hall. A thick, oppressive silence singed the air, causing a hushed panic to enter everyone's heart. Erik's certainly. The sorcerer was staring Charles down and the expression on his face had lost all pretence of humour.

"You made a grave mistake," the sorcerer snarled and brought his hand down, raining a hail of ice shards from nowhere into floor, regardless of what was in its way. Erik found himself screaming, but the panic, fortunately, was premature: Henry threw an arm out, shielding himself and Raven from the onslaught, Angel covered her head; the rest of her was adequately protected by the heavy leather outer garb she favoured. The servants cowered behind a statue and remained there, even as they attempted to take their companion out of the fray.

Charles fared admittedly the worst, with no leather to protect his fair skin and no magic either, and Erik could see red spots staining his sleeves. He remained standing, thereby keeping Erik's heart from exploding out of his maw, shielding himself from the barrage of icicles with a decorative steel sword. Clever boy, Erik gushed, before he remembered "the boy" was only a few years his junior and thus a fully grown man. Clever nonetheless, taking up steel against the magic, something none of the others thought to do. Erik caught himself staring at the inexpert handling of the sword, and his insides melted into something warm and pleasant, when he thought that he could correct the oversights and imperfections of stature, that he could school Charles in the arts of wielding a sword properly.

Still, the curtain beckoned. Erik looked ahead, and nearly jumped out of his skin. There was a rat in his way. A huge, gnarled thing, scarred and missing bits of fur. Erik screeched and leapt at it, bouncing off its head and onto the other side, racing for the curtains over the door. Later, perhaps, he would reflect on the ease with which his ferret-self dealt with rats: far more efficiently and with less drama than his human self, but that was a matter for later.

The curtain hung from ancient, frayed cords. Erik slowly crawled the beam that held it and gnawed on the ropes, only half aware of the commotion going on below. A knife would have fought the gnarled strands and couldn't be sure of success, but his sharp little teeth tore through the hemp like it was a velvet cushion. Never underestimate a ferret, he thought vindictively when the rope began to give and the entire heavy curtain slipped under its own weight. There was a moment in which it hung on by the barest thread and then Erik stretched his furry body, snapped at the final thread with his teeth. The rope broke, snaking over the nails on which it hung, striking Erik's side and dislodging him from the beam.

The curtain fell, like a mountain would fall, collapsing into great, heavy folds. The momentum bore it into a heavy ornament and a suit of armour, carrying both like the tide and slamming into the sorcerer from behind, flattening him against the floor, where he lay cursing and spitting fire from his fingertips.

"You will regret this!" he screamed, and turned his gaze on Charles, who stood in his line of sight. "You first!"

Charles managed to cast a quick look over his shoulder before the sorcerer completed his incantation and the moment it flew he cast himself to the side, revealing Raven, as blue as her coat, holding a mirror like a shield in front of her. The curse rebounded off the shimmering surface and struck at the one casting it, burying him under the ornate curtains. Erik felt the collective sigh reverberate through the hall, and truly, he would have cared more, if he wasn't clinging to the remnants of rope which had held the curtain up by his ineffectual, tiny claws.

Down below there was wailing and the gnashing of teeth – well, not really, but the moods were somewhat sour and vibrating with compounded worries of half a dozen people.

"No, wait." Charles' voice rose above the rabble. "To begin with, we have the wounded to take care off – take him to a bed and boil water, the burns will need cleaning. Raven, dearest, I will ask you to be patient, it has to be reversible. All right – Miss Angel, begin searching for Mr Lehnsherr immediately."

"What did happen to Erik, I wonder," Azazel said, only barely masking the grunt of pain. "It's not like him to avoid a fight."

"He is indisposed, presently." Bless Charles, Erik thought with teary gratitude and dug his little claws into the rope. Bless his sweet-smelling skin and soft hair.

"He was transmorphed into a ferret," Angel said. If she had stopped there, Erik would have emerged from the indignity with his held high, however she saw fit to add, "You wouldn't believe what a darling creature he is now," and Erik knew he was going to have to renegotiate her contract, or possibly find a magician to turn her into a frog.

Even though Erik's field of vision was somewhat limited, he could picture the scene with vivid clarity, from the eyebrows shooting up into Janos' hairline and the dip of his head to the smirk twisting Azazel's lips and moustache. Azazel had the oddest moustache, which conformed to the curve of his lips, and when he smirked it would form a swirl on his upper lip. Strange, but true, and useful, in the business of making verbal threats so that bodily harm was avoided.

With that thought in mind, Erik returned to clawing himself up from the danger zone, but just as he thought he found stable purchase on the rope, the nail holding it in place tore from the wall and he fell, letting out a mighty squeal. Luckily for him, the curtain had not fallen entirely, and one of its edges still clung to the window, and it was that edge he caught with his claws, sliding down the plush fabric onto the marble floors, instead of splattering against it.

Erik thought with no small amount of pride that he was the most amazing rodent to ever grace god's green earth. His claws made little clicking sounds when he hopped off the remnants of the curtains and strode proudly into the middle of the hall, with his head high.

"My goodness," Angel said. "It's like he isn't even ashamed."

"Why should he be ashamed?" Charles asked her in wonder. "It was not his fault."

"He is a ferret!"

Charles frowned. "Hardly," he began. "I mean, I presume he has some of his wits about him even now, wouldn't you?"

Erik would consider this far more meaningful, if he couldn't feel his wits slowly slither out his fuzzy ears, as Charles came to him and picked him up, only to cradle him against his chest. Erik died and went to a happy ferret heaven, in which there were warm shirts, pale skin and freckles and plenty of blue.

"Oh yes," Angel said wryly, "He seems truly witty just about now."

Erik hissed at Angel in between nosing the collar of Charles' shirt. See if she were so clever with her nose tucked to Charles' freckled collarbone. Although, upon reflection, that was one theory Erik wouldn't be putting to the test, because he might be forced to slaughter poor Angel later, or worse, deny her the pleasure of robbing rich ladies of their jewels. In fact, he might do so nonetheless, just to punish her for making fun of him! Erik straightened his back and told her as much; sadly, the results were somewhat underwhelming.

"Oh, look, I think he's trying to speak!" Angel cooed and scratched the top of his head. "Isn't he adorable?"

Erik bit the hand that scratched. She was wearing leather gloves, so all he managed was getting his teeth hooked in a seam, but the humiliation of having to be unhooked from a leather glove was worth the moment of panic on her face (also because his reward came in the form of petting).

"Maybe he is a ferret after all," Charles mused, running his fingers lightly over Erik's arched back. "But if he is a wild one, then he is remarkably content to be held, and I don't think Henry has pets that roam free."

"I don't know, biting people for saying things he doesn't like sounds like Erik. Uncannily so. Not to mention the being held part, Erik very much enjoys being held." Azazel was grinning at Erik from a scant distance of maybe ten inches, and Erik strongly considered clawing his eyes out, just for kicks.

Why was it that he even considered having companions in the first place, he groused, when he was such a success at solo ventures. The vision of gallows danced across the freckles in the vee of Charles' open shirt and Erik snuffled into it. Yes, the gallows would be why.

"Henry!" Charles said meanwhile, with a touch more enthusiasm than Erik found comfortable. He made his displeasure known by hooking his claws into the shirt on which he was resting. "How is your friend?"

"Oh, Armando will heal. The burns look terrible, but he can move, albeit with effort, so I hope they are superficial only. I know some healing magic, luckily, it yields itself to burns. Strange how affiliated magic is with fire, I can't fix knife wounds as easily."

"That is most peculiar. Do you think you can find anything which could help the predicament of the rest?" Charles let worry colour his voice and Erik pressed his nose to the pulse beating on the side of his neck, delirious with delight, which, unfortunately, was short-lived, as the movement elevated his eyes above Charles' collar and he saw the devastation laid by the sorcerer in full.

Emma was a crystal statue, frozen with the crossbow aimed at an invisible enemy; Raven stared at her reflection in the mirror, tracing the blue scales on her face, looking at once otherworldly and frightened like a little child. Charles approached her with care and laid a hand on her shoulder, which she covered with her own. "Well, I have always wanted fame," she said tearfully. "No one will be able to look away now."

"We shall figure out a way to reverse it, my love," Charles said. "I promise you. Even if it takes a lifetime."

"Now, see, this is the oddest thing," Henry began, "but the nature of such curses is such that they should disperse only once the caster is dead."

Lo and behold, thought Erik, how it silenced all present, save for Henry, who continued to prattle about the magic and his studies and the particular emphasis he placed on the studying of curses. "Here," Charles said, detaching Erik from his shirt, hand holding him out in Angel's direction. "Hold him please."

Erik was prepared to let quite a bit slide, but he would not let this one stray from his grasp. He dug his claws into the pliant material of Charles' sleeve and twisted his body around his arm, indicating in no uncertain terms that letting go was not an option, no, Charles, regardless of the shaking.

"He's a wee bit stubborn, is he not?" Charles asked eventually, holding his forearm to his face in such a way that Erik was hanging from it upside down and staring into his eyes.

"Since Emma is incapacitated, let me be the one to say this: 'honey, you have no idea.'" Angel shrugged her shoulder, waved her hand and modulated her voice into Emma's crisp accent, then looked over her shoulder fearfully, back to the translucent statue with a great deal of worry in her gaze. "Do you think she is still alive?"

No one answered her.

After a moment of tense silence, Charles sighed and poked at Erik's face. "Could you at least get on my shoulder, please?"

Let it never be said Erik couldn't be gentlemanly when the occasion called for it. He climbed Charles' sleeve, feeling a touch of guilt when his grappling claws fell upon a wound made by the icicle, and made himself comfortable on his shoulder, close to the collar of the jacket. He rather preferred his previous position, where he was tucked snugly beneath the jacket with his nose close to the skin, but he would take what he could get.

He regretted the decision moments later, when Charles bent to inspect the curtain and the suit of armour lying underneath it. At first it seemed hardly dangerous, but then Erik spotted the clothing underneath, clothing which could have only belonged to the sorcerer from earlier. Erik let out a screech.

"Hush," Charles said. Erik couldn't help but feel that being picked bodily and cradled and _completely ignored besides_ set a bad precedent. He was beginning to suspect Charles might not be the brilliant thing he was envisioning all along, and a closer acquaintance would be bad for his health.

Charles ignored his very sensible protests, though it was possible that the cause of that was that he didn't speak ferret, and nudged at the armour with the sword he was still holding, and when that yielded no results, he picked up an edge of the curtain and pulled, hard. Erik felt he spoke for everyone present, when he screeched again and made a valiant effort to dive into Charles' shirt, because out from the folds of the disturbed clothing emerged a small mouse and twitched its whiskers at him, exuding the promise of menace. The little monster began advancing, taking the long way around the helmet, punctuating each step with a click of its claws, while its tail waved back and forth.

Somewhere to the side Raven broke into hysterical laughter.


	7. he's such a handsome brute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I suppose that is fitting punishment," Charles mused.

"Goodness," Charles said, just barely containing his own mirth, vibrating with it nonetheless. "I can't say I feel bad for the fellow, but it is disturbingly adorable."

"He nearly killed Armando!" one of the servants cried, a red-headed fellow with a myriad of freckles across his face.

"I suppose that is fitting punishment," Charles mused.

"I don't know, I'd step on it, too." Azazel laid a companionable arm on Charles' shoulder and found himself relieving his first meeting with Erik, when they were thrust into a ring together and Erik trounced him soundly by making exceptional use of his own teeth. Fortunately for Azazel, his leather gloves prevented him from appreciating the depth of the experience. "Just to be sure."

"We can't," Charles protested immediately. "I mean, look at the poor thing. It's tiny and terrified."

It wasn't. Either Erik was gaining a supernatural insight into rodent psyche, or this was a mouse with a particular linguistic affinity for ferret, but he could tell the thing was in no way scared. It was mad. And while Charles and Azazel and whoever else cared to drop a penny into the discussion began exchanging opinions, the mouse sat down and glared, and with every moment it glared Erik could feel the air growing thicker. Finally, a small discharge of sparks frilled on the edge of its whiskers, and the mouse affected a pose of triumphant delight, rose on its hind legs, and—

—was promptly swallowed by a fat feline, which came tumbling out of the kitchen and collapsed where the mouse had been posturing, pleased with itself. The cat began to lick his paws and stretch, eventually curling up in a fold of the curtain for a well-deserved nap.

Erik felt a curious sensation dredge fire from his bones. It was as though some strange force had taken hold of all his limbs and begun pulling, while simultaneously sand started pouring into his skin, filling it with weight. The process had one thing to recommend it, though, and that was its brevity: Erik had no more time than it takes for a ferret to take a breath for a scream between the beginning of the sensation and its dwindling down, at which point he discovered he was straddling Charles in the middle of a freezing great hall of a castle, nude as a new-born babe. More perhaps, as new-borns have the excuse of birth to be shameless and nude, and he was past the stage of life when public nudity was acceptable.

"Erik, was it," Charles said, peering up at Erik's face through his crooked glasses. "I would cry at the offence to my virginal sensibilities, but I fear we might all collapse from the strain of dramatic irony." He twisted to the side, to seek out his sister. "Raven, are you well?"

"If by well you mean a socially acceptable colour, then yes," Raven said, filling the words with pleased delight. Erik chanced a look over his naked shoulder and found the girl to be back in her own peach-coloured skin, robust with life and complemented by a curtain of golden locks.

Charles scoffed, as though he wasn't lying on a cold floor, underneath a naked man. "Nonsense, love, blue is a perfectly good colour."

"Not on skin it isn't."

"I did like your red hair."

"It did look good, didn't it?" Raven sighed. "Well, I suppose I get to dream a whole new dream as of now."

"I am also well, thank you for your concern, Erik." Emma slowly drew herself to a standing position, with Angel's aid. Her grip on her crossbow was firm as ever, so Erik finally allowed a knot inside his belly to unravel. Emma was safe, and so was everyone else. "My head is swimming. I should love to lie down for a moment."

"Erik," Charles said softly.

Erik looked down, where the entirety of Charles, his azure eyes and red lips, his white shirt, blue vest, wrapped temporarily in Henry's jacket, lay between his knees, and he thought, thank you, God, for the winter, else this would have been embarrassing.

"Could I possibly implore you to stand and let me up? The stone floor is rather cold."

Yes, Erik was fully aware of the cold. He was rather grateful that his knees were going numb, too, as it was very difficult to ignore, even in the face of what lay spread before him.

A heavy cloak fell onto his shoulders. It was polite enough to fasten itself around his throat (it might have gotten some help from Azazel), and lift Erik off poor Charles, who scrambled to his feet with Henry's assistance. "Why don't we find your clothes, _mon capitaine_ , yes?"

"Your French is abysmal," Erik told him while trying to walk without touching the icy floor with his frigid feet. "Whoever taught you?"

"Ilyana Alexandrevna." Azazel grinned brightly, as he always did when his command of language taught to him by a mad Russian spinster was called into question. "They don't make women like her in these parts."

Unfortunately, Erik had met Ilyana Alexandrevna himself and was thus forced to concede the point. She was a class of woman onto herself, although Erik preferred to think of her as something not quite human, something that had sprouted out of the earth already one hundred years old, then aged in reverse until it arrived at the relative age of forty and remained there, adopting babies found in the tundra and teaching them the mysteries of life.

"His clothes should be in the corridor upstairs, we haven't touched them," Raven said helpfully. "Right where we found them in the first place, you recall?"

"Yes, thank you." Azazel slung an arm over Erik's shoulders and pushed. He continued pushing until Erik climbed a flight of stairs, took a right, climbed another flight of stairs, looked around, found some cushions to hide in, shook off the ferret impulses, turned on his heel, marched down a flight of stairs, took another right, found his discarded clothes right where he left them and put them on without fuss. "Any better?"

"Why does everyone insist I have some sort of problems," Erik groused as he went for his rapier and found it unharmed a few steps away. It seemed like the sudden heating didn't hurt it any. This was a good thing, as getting it fixed would rely on their usual weapons' master's good humour, and Erik's relationship with the black-haired wisp of a man was tenuous, at best, through no fault of Erik's, because how was he to know of his familial entanglements?

Azazel stayed silent, politely considering the wall while Erik dressed and returned to his suave self, leaving his ferret experience far behind, focussing on the future and its immediate repercussions. The snowfall continued, thankfully in the natural fashion, and Erik considered the wisdom of braving the cold, but since the host seemed amenable to their prolonged stay, they might as well wait for the weather to improve before departing. They were owed a reprieve. "Are the horses taken care of?" Erik asked.

"Hardly. When would we have had the time to take care of them?"

"See to it now, we don't want them to freeze."

"It hasn't been that long," Azazel said with a shrug, but made no move to comply. Instead he tracked the movement of Erik's hands as the latter tucked the end of the leather belt around the sheath, after which he approached and placed a hand on Erik's shoulder. "Are you ready to meet your pretty boy again?"

Erik froze.

He didn't even remember going down the stairs (he did remember the pressure of Azazel's hand between his shoulder blades) and he didn't remember crossing the hall. He only came awake when his hand was in a firm grip and Charles was looking up at him with a cheeky smile and saying, "Such a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, sir. I believe you know I'm Charles Xavier. I meant to thank you, earlier – I'm given to understand you chivalrously rushed to my aid at Raven's call."

"Erik. Lehnsherr," Erik said. "I mean. Yes. It was no trouble." They were no longer standing around the fallen suit of armour, where the sorcerer died. Instead they were in a low room, made warm by a giant, buzzing fireplace, which smelled faintly of cinnamon. Two of Henry's servants bore in trays of cakes and porcelain teapots, muttering something about dinner being ready soon.

Erik looked at Emma, whose face was returning to its usual pinkness in the wafting steam rising from a teacup. "Help," he mouthed, but Emma was cruel like the winter, and she smiled at him like a saint riding out to conquer in all the glory a stained glass in direct sunlight allowed. This cheered Erik up, against all odds, enough at least to look into Charles' eyes and maybe—no, not smile. He did shake the offered hand though, vigorously, then dropped it and retreated to the corner, hoping for shadows to obscure him until such a time in the evening as everyone was busy and he could sneak out, unnoticed.

Alas, his escape attempts were somewhat fruitless, as Charles picked up a chair and sat right by Erik's side, folding his hands on his knees. "There is no reason to run from me, you know."

"I'm hardly running," Erik said, then picked up his teacup and hid in the adjacent library.

* * *

They dined in a royal dining room, which turned out to be the single strangest experience in Erik's life. For one thing, he was seated right next to Charles, which automatically made his entire meal seem like it was happening to someone else, at some other table. He couldn't taste a thing, though there were hints that the food was in fact excellent and should be appreciated. Erik couldn't be sure he actually ate anything at all. The sole good thing about the seating arrangement was that Emma, Angel, Azazel and Janos were gathered at one end of the table, and quite absorbed in the food and each other.

"Henry," Charles said at one point, once the soup had been eaten. "Why have you not returned to your previous form?"

Henry looked up from a conversation with Raven and, as far as Erik could ascertain the moods of giant furry beasts, looked ready to climb under the table in shame. Raven utilised the lull in conversation to glare at her brother with a wry smirk upon her lips. "What was it that you said about decorum, Charles?" she said, picking up her wine glass and swirling the ruby liquid therein. "Interrupting is rude."

Erik noted, quite by accident, because he had been paying no attention whatsoever, that Charles' cheeks now approximated the colour of fresh peonies. "I'm so sorry, Henry, Raven. I wasn't thinking."

"No, it's fine, quite fine," Henry said, waving his clawed hands over the table. "It's a natural question, isn't it? Um. Yes, well. You are correct in presuming that it was the very sorcerer who cursed me in the first place, and that enchantment should have ended when he died." Here Henry's head dipped lower. "Unfortunately I might not have been waiting as demurely as one might imagine, and when nothing happened for a year or so, I turned to researching magic myself. I eventually tried to reverse the curse, and I achieved moderate success, but it came at the cost of my appearance changing into this, instead."

"What was the original curse?" Charles asked, earning himself a scathing glare.

"Do you mind, brother-mine?" Raven interjected sweetly, laying a palm on the cuff of Henry's shirt, engendering a deep blue flush on his cheeks. "Henry was telling me the story of how his ancestors came by the castle. Your time might be better spent memorising the features of your frightening admirer, now that you can actually see – do not pretend you left the glasses in your study by accident."

"I really don't mind, it's only natural, I would expect no less of myself," Henry began speaking in the background, but Raven's palm silenced him by moving up to his elbow.

Charles pulled the glasses off his face and folded them neatly, and his cheeks continued to flame. He blinked at the table before him while he fondled the frames. "My eyesight is not that poor," he said quietly to no one in particular.

"How bad is it?" Erik ventured, emboldened by the familiar doe-eyed softness, though he did wait until the servant disappeared with the soup plates.

"Oh – to be honest it's not that horrible, I manage my daily life with ease, after all. It's the distance that gives me trouble, you see. Anything further than fifteen feet merits a squint, and it is worse if there is no sunlight. I didn't realise Henry wasn't wearing the fur, after all." Charles smiled weakly and shook his head. "No cause to worry, my friend. Frankly, I find it more of a hassle to find the glasses most of the time."

Ah, Erik thought. The glasses lay folded on the napkin beside his plate, abandoned entirely because Charles had directed his attention back to Henry, who proceeded to explain, in a low voice, that he has gotten used to it, and anyway, the blond butler, Alex, who'd been his childhood companion, gave him a fair amount of grief over the entire debacle, so really, he was not bothered by earnest curiosity in the slightest amount, in fact he rather appreciated it. "It had been such a long time," he said in the end. "I barely remember looking like a human being."

Erik paid him half a mind only, turning the glasses in his hands instead. Strange contraption, really. A pair of round lenses in a metal frame, and yet what a difference it made!  Erik unfolded the earpieces and placed the glasses on Charles' nose, tucked the frames in his hair and marvelled at the difference. Truthfully, Charles without glasses had the eyes of an inexplicably blue-eyed doe, facing a hunter's bow, but Charles with glasses was very nearly the hunter, focussed sharply on the creature on which his arrow was trained. It wasn't even that the gaze was predatory, because it couldn't be – kindness emanated from his every pore, and even with the sharp focus it remained at the forefront, even, Erik mused, when it would be obvious the gaze was plotting how to tear a man asunder.

This was the most inconvenient time to develop a heart condition, Erik thought, as his pulse began to hammer out a melody. The pretty boy had been pleasing, he was not above denying that (if he had learned anything in his life it was this: denying things for which there are credible witnesses only leads to trouble), but the man wearing the spectacles was a different creature altogether.

Naturally, Erik opened his mouth to demand that his company gather itself up and move, as no winter, no matter how harsh, was going to hinder their return to business, but what emerged, instead of a demand, was a weak request for coffee. Any other day, any other hour, such a request would have given him a cause for anger, something to focus on. On this day the request was immediately fulfilled.

"Which reminds me," Erik found himself saying, solely to escape the pressure building in his mind, the one which would force him to blurt out an inconvenient truth, or an outrageous lie taken for an inconvenient truth. "The sorcerer—"

"I believe his name is Sebastian Shaw. At least that's the name he gave me."

"Shaw, then. He spoke of an alert, of you calling him."

Henry stared at him, frowning, a disquieting sight on an already inhuman face. "I have not called for him. I know how, that's true, but I would never. I know enough magic to turn a dumb beast into something to haunt a dream, but Shaw is – was – something different."

"Could you have done so by accident?" Emma raised her head and stared at the master of the castle, mirroring his frown. "He didn't strike me as the kind of man who lies, except to himself."

"There's an enchanted creature that he'd left me when I broke the curse. A moth." Henry looked at his enormous hands. "It is the reason I am so strict with people wandering around the castle and touching things. A lot of it is dangerous."

Ah, Erik thought. "Was it a glass vase over a dead flower? The moth was the size of a butterfly?"

Henry frowned. "Yes, why would you ask?" he began, but halfway through the question he interrupted himself with a soft "Oh."

Erik valiantly repressed a flush. Unfortunately for his well-being, Azazel chose the most inopportune moments to distance himself from his company, and as such he let out a shameless guffaw of laughter, quickly taken up by everyone present, save Charles. Erik yearned for the simplicity of the time when he'd become a ferret, when the world was quite big and entirely ignorable. Coincidentally, it was also the time when he could hide entirely beneath the lap of Charles' jacket and stay there, warm and secure. The lady luck bestowed her favours carelessly, on that peculiar day, however, and while Erik found his wish to return to ferretdom unfulfilled, something else happened instead: Charles had the grace to hide a smile behind a napkin and twined his fingers through Erik's to offer courage in the face of overwhelming opposition, a gesture Erik gratefully returned, falling immediately under the spell of Charles' sharp blue eyes.

The rest of the haphazard dinner (for it was clear the cook's mind had been on other things), and in fact the remainder of the storm, was a blur, partly because of the snow and partly because Charles, after releasing Erik's hand in time for the dessert, hadn't ceased to enthral him with either spoken word or a fleeting touch, and continued to do so, long after the sustenance had been gained and the company began to beg off, seeking places to retire. One would think Erik would be wary of enchantment by now, having lived through the extremes magic had to offer.

One would think he wouldn't strive to provoke Charles into a fiery fight so early in their acquaintance, alas, Erik wasn't the conciliatory kind. Worse than that: it wasn't even something he could regret, not when there was but one sure way to resolve the argument that suited them both. This was a strange thing, that he would be so satisfied with a night he'd imagined so differently, he told himself, as he dragged the infernal _boy_ up by the hair to meet his mouth, and was in turn manhandled into a sitting position with surprising strength. "You shall be the death of me," Erik whispered, when Charles straddled his lap.

"Only a little, kind sir," Charles said, with an impish smile twisting his lovely mouth and sparkling in his clear blue eyes. For all the apple orchards of the country Erik couldn't recall what insane reason had held him back thus far, but he was indubitably glad to see it gone.

THE END 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit, the lack of conservation of mass bothers me too! D:


End file.
